


Alternate Aftermath #1

by duckiesinaline



Series: What's In a Word [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate End, Gramander, Happy Ending, Little bit of angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Thesival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 07:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesinaline/pseuds/duckiesinaline
Summary: Hold on, hold on, don’t go yet please don’t go …It was a litany, a mantra, that ran constantly through the undercurrents of his thoughts.While he fed and tickled the occamies in their nest, while he sat through yet another debrief with the latest panel of senior MACUSA officials, while he chatted with Tina and Queenie. It was always there; a totem, a prayer, a spell.Because Percival Graves hadn’t left. Not yet, not completely. And so Newt continued to chant the words.Just in case.





	Alternate Aftermath #1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silverkat1620](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverkat1620/gifts).



> Whoa, I'm blown away by the response to the first of what's now a (kinda) new series, thank you all! It was supposed to be a oneshot, but then there were comments, and now look what's happened! /o\ 
> 
> As one can see by the #1, this is just one potential aftermath. Not one I had originally intended, but you can thank Silverkat1620 for that. #2 will be along maybe in another week or two. Then it will be back to The Worst/Best - I'm so excited to start getting into the meat of that plot! :D

_Hold on, hold on, don’t go yet please don’t go ..._

It was a litany, a mantra, that ran constantly through the undercurrents of his thoughts.

While he fed and tickled the occamies in their nest, while he sat through yet another debrief with the latest panel of senior MACUSA officials, while he chatted with Tina and Queenie. It was always there; a totem, a prayer, a spell.

Because Percival Graves hadn’t left. Not yet, not completely. And so Newt continued to chant the words.

Just in case.

* * *

 

Senior Healer Elizabeth Battsworth smiled over the pile of linens she was folding when Newt arrived. “Ah, Prince Charming come to visit our sleeping beauty again?”

“What?” Newt blinked, footsteps stuttering on their habitual path to a certain patient’s bed. “I ... that is, he doesn’t seem the sort of person who would appreciate being called that.”

Elizabeth snorted, tugging a crease into a sharp corner and pressing it flat with practiced efficiency. “Oh, that man doesn’t appreciate half the things he should.” Chiding the words may have been, but there was only fond exasperation beneath them. Her steady movements paused when her expression wavered on the edge of melancholy, but then she straightened with a pointed look down at his wrist. “Any new developments?”

He resisted the urge to hide his hand behind his back as if he were a guilty child and shook his head. “No, but ... I’m not at all sure this is an accurate measure of if he might - of when he will - “ He bit his lip.

Elizabeth sighed, raising her eyes to the tops of the mullion windows, where the sun was just beginning to peek out through a thin blanket of winter overcast. “I suppose we’re grasping a bit at straws, but who really knows? It seems no less logical than any other hypothesis. The existence of soulmates could be as old as magic itself, as far as we know. It’s criminal, how long it’s been with us and how little we still know.”

Newt hunched his shoulders. If he’d only known ... no, he couldn’t continue deluding himself. He’d known, deep down. He’d used the excuse of ‘not possible’ and ‘never heard of it’ to rationalize his ignorance - he, who prided himself on research and discovery, on facing what others feared and, with knowledge, rendering it into something that could be appreciated.

Elizabeth glanced down again, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his suitcase. “Planning on doing a bit of work by the bedside today?”

Newt breathed in and consciously straightened, raising the battered case just enough to press his other hand gently against its side. “Actually? I have a favor to ask.”

* * *

The light inside the case was kinder.

In an eternal springtime’s golden glow, the yellowed bruises were nearly invisible, the harsher shadows filled in, the scabs not so stark. His hair had grown ragged - but for a strip that had been neatly sheared around a cut by his temple - and stubble was beginning to shadow his lip and jaw again, but the staff had taken extraordinary care to keep him clean and comfortable.

Elizabeth smoothed the blanket over a hand and gave it an absent pat. “Are you sure?” she asked, looking down at her charge of the last month. It wasn’t the first time she had asked.

“Yes,” Newt answered simply.

“He may not be conscious, but it’s still quite a bit of care he needs.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice at taking care of others.”

Elizabeth turned to look out of the open shelter Newt had conjured; a half-dome hut that faced a myriad of habitats - swaying grasslands, rugged outcrops, shadowed forests. The air was warm, but a constant breeze kept if from being stifling, carrying the clean scent of vegetation and distant sounds of wildlife.

“Yes, I suppose you do,” she allowed.

* * *

Theseus arrived with the Ministry of Magic’s official delegation, leading the Aurors that were to escort Grindelwald back to Europe.

“And you carry him around in _that_?” he asked with typical irreverence after thoroughly grilling Newt on everything that had happened.

Newt could feel his cheeks warming as he suppressed the urge to defensively clutch the case to his chest. “I keep everything that’s most important to me in here!” he grumbled.

He had expected more good-natured teasing, but uncharacteristically, Theseus sobered. Also uncharacteristically, the man hesitated, visibly picking words with care as he frowned down at the case. “Are you sure it’s him, little brother?”

Newt bristled. “Those were my words on his wrist, Thes! It’s not as if they were a simple, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Graves.’”

Theseus winced, and reached out to squeeze Newt’s wrist apologetically; the left wrist, the one closest to the heart, thumb pressed over the pulse-point. “I know, newtling. I know. It’s just ... “ He trailed off, expression tight, lips still parted for words that wouldn’t come.

Disarmed by this aspect of his brother he’d never seen before, Newt eyed him for a long moment before slowly realizing, “You know him. You were close.”

Theseus sucked in a short breath as if he had forgotten to breathe for a moment, and let his hand fall away. “Yes. Close enough. I would tease him about it - he was such an unsentimental bloke. It was the funniest thing, seeing him all puffed up and riled, like a cock over his hens. He never talked about it, except once, when he was already more than halfway pissed. He said - “

Newt pressed his hand over his brother’s mouth. “No. I don’t want to hear it.” When he pulled his hand away, he smiled at his brother’s woebegone expression. “Not from you. I’ll wait till he can tell me himself.”

If anything, Theseus just looked even more miserable. “Newtling ... that might be a long time. A very long time.”

Newt could feel his smile going brittle. “That’s alright,” he admitted quietly. “After all, I ignored him for over ten years. I figure it’s well within his rights to ignore me for a little while too.”

* * *

Theseus returned with Grindelwald back to Europe.

MACUSA appointed a new director.

Newt boarded the _Overland Limited_ rail line headed into the great American west.

While Frank was more than fit enough to have made the flight home from New York City on his own, the thunderbird had elected to return to the case after his brief circle over the city. He had played at being disgruntled with the New England weather, but he had also been particularly attentive during feeding times after his return - walking close to Newt and fluffing his body feathers, preening Newt’s hair obsessively until Newt had to shove the beak aside with his entire bodyweight.

Newt jotted notes down in his entry on thunderbirds. Perhaps Frank could sense that he was now on the same continent as home, and wanted to say his last goodbyes. Was it an innate sense of position, as it seemed to be with many migratory feathered species? Or perhaps some other element unique to North America that the thunderbird could sense?

The animals that were allowed to roam freely through the various habitats all took a turn at visiting the case’s newest resident. In the first week, Newt saw them regularly darting in and out of the hut, sniffing and watching and touching tentatively at the covers and bedclothes. After the initial curiosity wore off, so did the activity, though there were some who became regular visitors. They seemed to like the peace and comfort of a regular presence that was perpetually at rest, and it was a frequent occurrence to find something curled up in the bed, pressed up against a limb or upon the belly or at the hollow of the shoulder and neck.

Slowly, the signs of abuse faded. The most critical hurts had been healed before the transfer; Elizabeth would have never allowed her patient out of her sight if they hadn’t. But now he truly looked like he had simply taken an overlong nap; maybe just a little more hollow, a little more than pale than he should be, but nothing that looked like a few round meals and a little exercise wouldn’t fix.

But still, he didn’t wake.

* * *

Frank returned to Arizona.

Grindelwald escaped.

Queenie and Jacob married in England, so Theseus’ letter said, and Newt found himself grinning in honest surprise and delight.

He read the letter out loud, just as he occasionally read aloud bits and pieces of the book he was working on. He had all but moved his desk and all his work out to the hut, had even debated simply sleeping there too before wondering if it was a little too presumptious.

It was one thing to keep someone company during the day. Soulmates they may be, but Newt was vividly reminded everyday that he actually knew nothing about Percival Graves at all.

How he liked his coffee. What his favorite foods were. What sorts of books did he like to read, or what pastimes he indulged in when he wasn’t working.

“I tried American coffee ... it’s really an acquired taste, isn’t it? Don’t let mum know, but I like the teas from Japan the best. She says I was a fussy eater as a child, but I don’t know if I should believe her, because you really can’t be fussy while wading through the swamps to track down bogwhumpers ... “

* * *

Along with his fourth royalty check, Newt received an invitation from the publisher to write an expanded version of his book.

There was also an invitation to visit Hogwarts that he took out to look at indecisively every day since receiving it, and two weeks later, the much-creased letter continued to languish in a corner cubby.

Newt trimmed his soulmates’ nails, kept his face clean of stubble, made sure the hair was at a manageable length, but didn’t bother to maintain the previous undercut. It made him look softer - more relaxed. Not like someone who had been known only by his work.

Newt took his case with him to the African savannahs, where the earth was hard beneath his feet and the grasses brittle, dotted by islands of far-flung acacia trees. That first day, as the sun settled into a dull glow upon the wavering line of the horizon, he just sat there with the his arms wrapped loosely around his knees, the suitcase a reassuring weight against his hip.

Over the next three days, he barely went into the case except to ensure that all its residents had their needs taken care of. Uncertain of what mood had taken him, he continued to live off of the stores he kept inside the case while staying mostly outside of it, letting the wide open emptiness of the landscape soak into his bones. It almost seemed as if he had put down roots like the tree he sheltered under during the hottest parts of the day - grown quiet and silent and still.

When the nomadic tribe happened upon him, he could only blink in distant curiosity.

The hunters cast him long, measuring looks as they passed - the whites of their eyes almost glowing against the ebony of their skin, limbs as long and lean as their spears - eager to move on. The women, nearly just as bare as the men, with packs and baskets and solemn children strapped to them or walking alongside, snuck glances and talked, secure in the obscurity of their dialect.

There were not many older members. But one woman, hunched and steel-haired, draped in strings of bone and clay beads and earth-toned feathers, stopped. The rest of the tribe continued for a half dozen steps before trailing uncertainly to a halt too, and they all watched, Newt included, as the woman nudged the young man bracing her elbow.

She said something, her voice surprisingly clear, the language full of guttural stops and tongue clicks.

As the tribe members looked at each other in clear bemusement, the young man turned to Newt and said in heavily accented English, “My grandmother gives greetings to you, fellow traveler. We will stay with you tonight.”

* * *

“My name is Murunga,” the young man said, baring his teeth in a wide smile. His left canine was slightly crooked. “I was trained at the Uagadou school of magic, the first of my generation. I will take my grandmother’s place in the tribe when she decides she will walk with our ancestors instead.”

* * *

The grandmother sat beside Newt, eyes closed, unmoving for the last hour but for the rise and fall of her back with each breath, seemingly asleep in that position. Murunga was sprawled comfortably against the acacia, drowsing.

In the night, the bright splash of stars overhead was enough to see the slumbering shadows of bodies all around him. Newt felt a queer itch beneath his skin - it made him recall another body, lying quiescent within the case held protectively against his side. He was beginning to realize that maybe he was trying to avoid something.

He started violently when there was a tap against his wrist - the grandmother had reached out, lightly slapping her hand against it. Her skin was smooth and dry, like polished deadwood; worn and bleached by sand and sun. She chuckled, the sound making her seem oddly young with its clear delight in his discomfiture, and she mumbled something.

“You carry it like a stone,” Murunga translated.

“What?” Newt’s voice rasped in the dry air, and though he hadn’t been sleeping, he still felt the urge to rub his eyes, as if some veil had been draped over them. “Carrying what?”

The grandmother petted Newt’s left wrist again, muttering something with a long look up into his eyes.

“This was not meant to be a burden,” Murunga said. “They would not want you to carry it like one.”

* * *

The tribe moved on when the sky had barely lightened. Newt watched until he couldn’t distinguish them from the grass and the trees, and then he opened his suitcase and climbed down into it.

* * *

Queenie was pregnant. Jacob’s business was thriving. Tina married.

Theseus was bullied by the DMLE director into accepting the position so that the man could finally retire.

The owl carrying the first revision of Newt’s new manuscript was barely managing to stay in the air under its weight, and Newt laughed as he offered a special treat to the disgruntled bird before looking down at the stack of papers - nearly double what he had initially sent - in dismay. “Looks like we have some long nights ahead of us,” he offered to his silent roommate, but it was with a smile as he looked forward to the evening lit by twinkling firefairies, a cup of shincha tea beside him, the comforting smell of parchment and ink, and verbally mocking the more ignorant requests from the editors.

He absently scratched at his wrist before remembering that he needed to start early on the feeding rounds because one of his newest patients needed a special mash made up to ease an upset digestion.

He had sat down to tie on heavier workboots - the new swamps he had installed were not kind to his preferred footwear - when his sleeve slid up in his hunched position and he noticed the elegant lines inked across his veins. _Percival - it’s just Percival._

Breath frozen in his chest, he brushed a trembling thumb across the words, and when they didn’t rub off, abruptly straightened.

Half-open eyes were watching him from beneath furrowed brows, blinking drowsily.

Giddy and lightheaded, smiling wide enough to split his face, Newt gently rested his hand upon words scripted round a thin wrist - _Hold on, hold on, don’t go yet please don’t go_ \- and said, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Graves.”


End file.
